


At World's End

by morningstarzip



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: End of the World, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morningstarzip/pseuds/morningstarzip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of the world has come, but Mycroft constructs himself a new one with those he loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At World's End

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Major character death.

Mycroft Holmes was many things. Most prominent of these was 'methodical'. There were few things he couldn't do once he put his mind to it. Along those same lines, there were few things he _wouldn't_ do once he had again put that formidable mind to the task at hand. That included his current one.

Four large steaks were carefully selected out of the seven deep freezers that filled the garage. Each was easily a meal for two, perhaps three if Mycroft were dieting that week. Laying them on a cookie sheet, Mycroft locked each freezer he had opened, dropping the keys back into his pocket. A chain ran from them as a secondary measure, fastening them to his waistcoat. The door to the garage automatically locked after him.

He passed through his living room and dining room without much thought or even a glance at the priceless works of art that decorated the dark wood walls. Few people could walk past some of England's greatest paintings and not even pause. Of course, now their value was probably worth less than the meat he carried before him. One couldn't eat priceless works of art. 

Strange how the world had turned upside down. Mycroft Holmes was methodical though, and when he had seen the first signs in Canada (Canada of all places!) he had prepared. By the time the Apocalypse had fully struck England, he had been ready and taken those he loved away from the terrors that the ordinary person would have faced in London or the like. Seven restaurant sized freezers filled the garage with barrels of petrol taking up what space those didn't. A single 'experimental' generator kept all of that running along with the house itself although Mycroft rarely needed more than candlelight shielded carefully behind thick curtains from anyone seeing it from the outside. Not that there was anyone to see it. This house had been chosen for its location, sitting on an island fully fifteen or so kilometres out in the middle of a lake.

Most importantly, there were no cemeteries on the island. Or docks. Mycroft and his family did not appreciate visitors. The cliffs took care of most of that. It was better to be safe than sorry though, Mycroft reasoned. He has his loved ones to think of.

A quiet tune was hummed under his breath as Mycroft unlocked yet another door and started down the stairs. The air grew damper and cooler down here, more what his dear ones liked than the sometimes humidity present upstairs. The screens kept out most of the pests like mosquitoes. Discomfort wasn't something necessary with the end of the world.

Two more doors opening under his ring of keys, and Mycroft allowed himself a small sigh of relief. They were all going about their usual, no sign of upset at dinner being a few minutes late. Sometimes breaks in their routine did upset them so.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured quietly, not wanting to hurt his brother's sensitive ears. 

Greedy hands snatched the frozen steak Mycroft had offered through the bars of the cell with the tongs. Sherlock's dull and glazed eyes stared at his brother as he shoved the meat into his mouth, yellowish-green teeth clunking against it. Had it not been so much a task for one person, Mycroft would have brushed them for his brother. John Watson shuffled up to the bars next, pawing at the steel as if he didn't understand it. A low broken moan came from the doctor's throat as he reached for his steak that Mycroft offered to him. The doctor gnawed on his as well, watching Mycroft through animal stupid eyes that held no memory of wars or bravery, only able to process that he was hungry.

Mycroft often suspected that they would have wanted live instead of dead meat, but the island was deserted beyond them. Should anyone ever come, he supposed he would have the opportunity to test that theory. Waste not, want not.

“Anthea,” Mycroft said politely as he moved to the next cell, offering dinner while keeping back at an arm's length. She was often the one who would limp to the bars, seeming weak and harmless, before trying to snatch anything within grasp. He told himself there was intelligence there. It was for that same reason that he left Sherlock and Doctor Watson together in the same cell. He theorized that some primal vestige of the true 'person' in there. Anthea was dangerous. Sherlock and Doctor Watson were content together. Strange since most of the undead that he had watched videos from Canada as the outbreak began would fight or eat each other.

Mycroft had left the steaks frozen purposely. Long ago, he had watched on the telly that some orphan polar bear cub or another had been given fruit frozen in ice. It had seemed a little cruel to him to make the bear work for it for so long, but the announcer had told the audience that it kept the cub from getting bored, gave it something to do. It was something Mycroft had remembered although experimentation had told him that they couldn't smell meat through ice. Frozen was the best he could do for them. He told himself that when his brother stared dumbly at the meat that Sherlock was trying to figure out a problem versus being a stupid animal not understanding that it would thaw eventually.

The last was sometimes the worst.

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, holding this steak in his hand as he offered it through the strong bars between him and his lover.

Rough hands that were as cold as the proverbial grave brushed Mycroft's before the steak was torn from them. Gregory Lestrade stared blankly at Mycroft as he tried to bite (and failed) at the frozen meat. Those dark eyes were covered by a bluish film of death as if he had gone blind, but Mycroft knew that Lestrade could see him all too well. Could attack with surprising quickness too.

“How are you feeling, Gregory?” Mycroft asked, watching every minute twitch and movement of Lestrade's. It had been too late when Mycroft's people had found him, already bitten. At least he had 'died' here on the island, holding onto Mycroft's arms. Sherlock, Watson and Anthea had already been dead when Mycroft had used the last of his living resources to find them. Kidnapping had never been something he shied away from.

Mycroft Holmes had and now still ignored any memory of Detective Inspector Lestrade begging him to put a bullet into his brain after he died. Mycroft would no more shoot his lover than he would himself. He would find a cure. He would. He was Mycroft Holmes, after all.

Lestrade grunted at him, drawing his mouth off the steak long enough to give Mycroft his stupid-hungry stare before trying to bite into the meat once more. His teeth made a loud and ugly dull sound.

Mycroft ignored it as easily as he did the reek of dead creatures, rotting bones and madness.

It was for love, and these were his loved ones. He couldn't abandon them. They _needed_ him, even Sherlock who would have denied it. Probably would have denied it. Mycroft knew his family, his loved ones.

“I love you,” he whispered to Gregory, hoping against hope.

He told himself that the glance that Lestrade flicked up to his face was memory or want instead of blatant hunger.


End file.
